


Two Birds, Interrupted Mid-Song

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Inspired by Saying it Out Loud, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie gets angry at Stan for attempting suicide, slight description of dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26354077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Stan was sharp - too sharp for his own good, Richie sometimes thought."and"Perhaps only Stan realized that they had taken another step toward some unthinkable confrontation."Stan has a very peculiar fear. Richie is right there with him, if only because he trusts Stan.A story about friendship and belief, and how those things might come into play when the doubt gets powerful and the going gets rough and quite frankly, weird.
Relationships: Richie Tozier & Everyone, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous, Labor Day Book Quote Challenge (2020)





	Two Birds, Interrupted Mid-Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the Labor Day Book Quote Challenge organized by my "enemy" @richieblows and the loml @bimmyshrug. This project, although frustrating because I just kept adding more and more words, was a lot of fun, and I met a lot of great people doing this. So thank you to you both.
> 
> And thank you to my best girl @blueeyedrichie for betaing for me and not leaving me to die when I pestered her for validation and criticism.
> 
> The idea for Stan's fear in this fic is not my own, it comes from a book called Saying It Out Loud, though there it is presented as merely a childish belief, and not an actual fear.

When Stan was younger, maybe six or seven years old, he had become briefly convinced that everyone was born with a certain number of words, and that when you used up all your words, that’s when you died. He had outgrown this childish, if kind of horrifying, belief, but it returned with a vengeance a little over a year after their first encounter with Pennywise.

Richie knew this because as Stan’s best friend, he had been subjected to Stan’s silent insistence that he also not talk both times, not to mention all the talks he had overheard the adult Urises having over what to do. He had even kind of adopted the fear himself on the second go around, to the extent that his infamous trashmouth had been kept under lock and key for nearly a year - that was when Stanley had moved, and with him went Richie’s fear.

As Richie, now fully grown, stared down at a comatose Stan in his hospital bed, he found himself absently hoping that Stanley Uris had been born with billions more words than he had already used.

* * *

A tapping at his window woke him up, and he shook off the childish insistence that if he couldn’t see what was there, it couldn’t hurt him. Last summer had proved that that wasn’t true at all. So Richie took a deep breath, reached for his glasses and swiftly slid them on. The last thing he expected to see was Stan’s pale, scared face framed in moonlight at his window, but there it was. 

He hurried over to let him in, and was about to ask what the hell he was doing there and why he looked like  _ that, _ but before any sound came out, Stan had already clapped a hand over his mouth. Richie resisted the urge to be annoying and lick Stan’s hand, and was rewarded with an imploring look and his mouth’s freedom. He raised his eyebrows.

Stan pointed to his own mouth, and then mimed zipping it closed over and over again. Richie tilted his head, opening his mouth to ask what in the fuck was going on, only to close it again when Stan shushed him forcefully. Again, Stan mimed zipping his lips closed, but this time he followed it up with a talking hand, a cutting motion across his throat, and then miming death by closing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

Richie would have laughed, because Stan looked really, really funny, but in that moment he suddenly understood what Stan was trying to tell him. 

It had returned.

A shiver hit him before he reminded himself that no, IT hadn’t returned. This was a completely different monster, something frightening but not nearly as bad as good old Pennywise.

Richie swallowed his questions, because he knew they wouldn’t help. Stan’s whole fear was talking, that talking too much would mean they’d die faster. Asking too many questions would just send him into a panic.

He thought back - how had Stan gotten over this fear when they had been in elementary school? Absentmindedly, he reached out a hand towards Stan, who took it and let himself be led towards the bed to sit down. Richie rubbed his thumb over Stan’s wrist, and there was a distant thought that at any other time he’d be afraid to do something like that, because boys didn’t trade touches like these, no matter how innocent. But on the heels of that thought came the assertion that this was Stan. Stan, a fellow Loser and his best friend, even more than Bill, who still kind of made his stomach do backflips, and more than Eddie, who Richie wanted to crash into and lie with in the wreckage, and never let go.”

(To be fair, sometimes Richie looked at Stan’s curls and thought,  _ huh, _ but even so, there was something about knowing someone since you were both four years old that made those kinds of thoughts seem...not unimportant, but like it didn't matter. Like they wouldn't land him in a world of hurt if someone knew. Or maybe that was just a "knowing- _ Stan _ -since-he-was-four" thing.)

It was a little funny, Richie thought, that Stan could make him feel so unafraid, even as Stan himself had literally just stopped shaking. He couldn't really remember what made Stan stop being afraid the first time this particular fear reared its head, but maybe it was just this. Sitting with him, playing along, letting him know no one was going anywhere. 

Richie hoped it would work again.

Weeks passed. Stan still wasn’t speaking, though he had briefly broken his vow of silence to explain to their friends why he wasn’t going to be talking anymore. He visited Richie at night - not every night, but enough that Richie had started leaving his window just a little bit open, so that Stan could come in without having to knock and wait for Richie to hear him. He’d lay down next to Richie, and Richie would hold his wrist again, and they’d relax, with not a word passing between them. Richie sometimes wanted to ask why Stan came over, but figured it was a stupid question - Stan probably wanted the reminder that his friends were alive and would stay that way. Which begged the question: was Richie the only one who got these nighttime visits?

One Stanley night, Richie took a chance and very quickly asked if Stan visited the other Losers like this. Stan frowned at him, only it wasn’t his usual Stanley Uris frown. That frown was stern and disapproving, the kind of frown you’d see on a parent, a little imposing and a lot disappointed. This one, on the other hand, just made him look small, like the breeze outside could knock him around and send him tumbling through the air and he wouldn’t protest even a little bit, just keep staring while he waited for it to stop. It made Richie want to kick himself for speaking, and wasn’t that just the weirdest fucking thing? The famous Trashmouth, wanting to stuff his words back in instead of spewing out more in the hopes of covering up his flaws and mistakes and anxieties.

Before Richie could decide on whether or not to actually kick himself though, Stan slowly nodded. So he wasn’t the only one having to keep a window open. That was good, that Stan wanted to trust all of them with this. Still, it made Richie uneasy. The others, as great as they were, didn’t often know what to do about Stan the Man and all his quirks, because his quirks seemed to just be because of him, and not because of any outside force. Kind of like Richie and his need to talk at all times. The Losers were generally great about it, sure, but there was a reason “Beep beep, Richie” existed. If Stan had been a little louder with his oddball and sometimes misplaced sense of humor, Richie had no doubt there would be a “Beep beep, Stan” as well.

He wondered if the others respected Stan’s fear like he did, and, suddenly seized with a desperation to confirm that yes, of course they did, no matter how confused they were by it, he scrambled up off the bed and over to his desk, opening the worn notebook laying haphazardly on it as he grabbed a pen. He scrawled out his question, wondering guiltily why he hadn’t thought of this earlier in the night.

Stan brightened once he saw what Richie was doing; clearly he hadn’t thought of writing things down either. It made Richie feel a little better. When he showed Stan the question, Stan tilted his head and nodded, then made grabby hands for the notebook and pen. Richie snorted but handed them over, and waited patiently for Stan to carefully write out his answer.

_ They don’t talk, and they don’t ask, but I know they want to. They just stare at me and wait for me to start talking. They don’t get it. You don’t either, not really, but you’re the only one that could, I think. _

Richie made an understanding face, Stan nodded with a little grimace, and that was that. Richie threw the notebook and pen back onto his desk and then flopped down next to Stan, who raised an eyebrow at Richie’s characteristic messiness but lay back down anyway.

Richie didn’t get any sleep that night, turning the words  _ you’re the only one who could _ over and over again in his head. Stan was right, like he usually was. Richie probably was the only person who could understand, and the thing of it was, he thought he was starting to. Not in an “I believe you” sort of way, necessarily. But in an “I’m open to what you have to say” way. (Much later, he would wonder if the latter was the start of a downward spiral towards the former.)

As Stan’s refusal to speak continued, so did the Losers’ concerns grow. There was meeting after meeting about what to do, because this kind of thing wasn’t normal. This kind of fear was purely irrational, and a little scary in its intensity, and  _ you’re his best friend, Richie; did he tell you where this came from? _

Richie always responded that no, he didn’t know where it came from, just that it had happened before, but his best guess was that this time around it happened because of something related to the lingering distress surrounding Pennywise. No he hadn’t asked why it was happening, and oh my God Bill, he brought a notebook so you could write random things you wanted to say to him, not so that you could interrogate him, and honestly, why didn’t any of you think of just writing stuff down before?  _ Why didn’t Richie think of it before? _ Well Eddie, because he was too busy fucking your mom. Yes, he had visited the Uris household and yes the parents knew what was going on, though they were much less accepting of it than they had been when Stan hadn’t hit double digits yet. Not that they were very accepting back then. Stan’s parents' brand of worry tended to be more harsh than anything else.

As the days and questions and discussions wore on, no one noticed that Richie was getting progressively more and more short with his responses, more quiet.

Or rather - they did notice, but they thought it was out of worry, because Richie and Stan had been friends for longer than any of them. It made sense that there would be a breaking point, where Richie’s jokes and chatter would stop and the deep contemplation would set in. But that wasn’t what was going on.

Richie had taken the time to think. He had thought about the evil hibernating clown, and he had remembered how Stan was beyond afraid. He remembered how Stan’s instinct was to deny anything paranormal could be happening until he couldn’t anymore, and even then he had still kind of tried. Maybe, Richie thought, there was more to it than just Stan not wanting his neat little world to fall to pieces.  Perhaps it was also that only Stan realized, early in that dreadful summer, that they had taken another step - and then another, and another, and then several - toward some unthinkable confrontation. It was possible that Stan had simply thought that avoiding the issue was the best way to deal. And if he had, well, his tactics hadn’t worked, but he had been right about the confrontation, hadn’t he?

It was hard to say where Stan’s crazy belief that words were linked to life came from, but Richie had started to think that it wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe this was something else that Stan was right about, and maybe this time he wanted to do something about it, before it was too late.

* * *

Richie didn’t know how long he had been in this room, only that it couldn’t have been more than an hour, because the Losers hadn’t come back yet. They had all gone to pick up Patty and then go on a food run with her, because they insisted on keeping her company as much as possible, but didn’t want to leave Stan alone either. Richie privately thought it was a minor miracle that Patty didn’t find this even a little overbearing and annoying, the way he would have. Then again, maybe she was just that perfect for Stan, who, if he hadn’t changed too much since childhood, probably still had a habit of mothering people in the form of slightly nagging reminders and quiet companionship.

Or maybe she was just really good at hiding her irritation. What did Richie know, he and the rest of their motley crew had only been here for a few days.

It had been a huge surprise when, a day after defeating Pennywise, Bev had received a call from a still shocked Patty Uris. Apparently, Stan had suddenly sat up in the morgue two days after being brought there, startling the attendant who had just been about to leave. The problem was that he had been delusional, rambling about a clown and Judith and how he had left his friends this time around, how could he leave his friends? Immediately after, he had fainted dead away, only to be pronounced comatose a little while later. On the bright side, his vitals were miraculously good, but who were the hospital staff to question that when a dead man who had lost a lot of blood suddenly came back to life, cuts turned into scars and a healthy flush on his cheeks?

Patty, understandably, hadn’t thought to call the nice woman who had asked after her husband until Stan was already safe and sound in a hospital bed, still in a coma but alive, so alive. Shortly after their arrival at the Georgia hospital, Bill had ventured to ask why she had called them at all, considering she had no idea who they were. She tactfully ignored the baleful glares the rest of them had sent Bill’s way, and said, “It was the strangest thing. I don’t think I would have, even if you did say you were friends of his, but - you’re going to think I’m crazy. It felt like he wanted me to call you. Like you were the friends he didn’t want to leave behind.”

“Not crazy at all,” Bill had said, and they had all eagerly agreed.

It had been three days since then. Richie kind of secretly hoped that Stan would wake up today, so that he could make “Stan is the new messiah” jokes, even though he knew Stan would just tell him that Jesus was resurrected three days after he died, not three days after his friends showed up. And then Eddie would jump in to say (in the know-it-all voice he only got when he had Stan or Bill to back up his points), “And either way Richie, waking up from a coma is not the same as coming back to life, blah blah blah.” The Losers would laugh obnoxiously. God, Richie had missed his friends.

He sighed. “Come on Stan,” he said, nudging Stan’s hand. “Wake up man. Your wife misses you. The Losers miss you. Don’t leave your family hanging like that.”

Stan didn’t answer, and Richie blew out a breath. He hadn’t really expected Stan to respond. But maybe he wished his voice would be enough. They had been close once, and Richie still felt a deep well of affection for the boy he was and the man he had yet to know. He had the irrational thought that that  _ should _ have been enough.

Abruptly, he felt a wave of anger wash over him. His voice didn’t have to be enough right now because the thing that should have really been enough was the compulsion to come back, when Mike had called them. They had all been terrified, and yet they couldn’t stay away. They knew, deep down inside, that they had something to come back to. Stan, on the other hand, felt the terror, and under that the need to go, and ignored it. He left them behind, he left his perfectly nice wife behind, and decided fucking suicide was the best option. What the fuck had Stan been thinking?

Richie realized he was squeezing Stan’s wrist hard, and he let go, relieved to see that there didn’t seem to be any bruising. That would have been a nightmare to explain.  _ Oh yeah, sorry guys, sorry Patty, I was just so mad at our supposed friend here that I didn’t even notice I was doing it. By the way, did I mention he’s an asshole and he deserves more than just a bruised wrist? _

The thought pulled him up short. Stan had scars on his wrist. He hadn’t deserved those. Maybe he thought he had? Richie groaned.

“Fucking hell, Stanley. I hate getting inside your stupid fucking head. I thought I was messed up but you really got me beat. You told me off when we were four for wanting to be your friend and then gave me your crackers when you thought I was going to cry, and you said you didn’t want to be friends with Bill and Eddie and then dragged me to talk to them the very next day, and you  _ fucking convinced me to stay silent like my voice was my goddamn chastity and I was a fucking Catholic schoolgirl, and I never saw anything wrong with that, Jesus fucking Christ.” _

He bit back a sob. “I hate you so much sometimes, Stan,” he whispered, voice wavering. He looked down at Stan’s wrists again, and reached over to rub at the scars gently.  _ He got himself good, _ Richie thought.  _ Must have been a really sharp knife. Sharp knife for a sharp man. _

As a boy,  Richie had sometimes thought that Stan was sharp - too sharp for his own good. He didn’t remember anymore exactly what Stan had said or done to provoke such a thought from time to time, but he had had the impression that Stan was really just too smart and observant, too perceptive and that it would get him into trouble one day.

Now, with bitterness mixing with how much he missed his best friend, Richie thought that Stan was sharp in more than one way. He could be mean and cutting, a little (or a lot in this case) self-destructive, and he could drag you right down with him if you weren’t careful, especially when he didn’t mean to. It was what made Stan so dangerous at times. He never  _ meant  _ to hurt you, he was always looking out for you, or he was caught up in his own head, and you ended up taking his hand and letting him unwittingly take you down the rabbit hole of whatever the fuck was going on with him at the time. This attempted suicide was probably either a panicked, terrified course of action, or something he considered a necessary chess move, because Stanley Uris was always thinking and planning but somehow he still managed to epically fuck up the really important shit. He let go of Stan’s wrist, shaking with the need to yell at someone, preferably the son of a bitch in front of him.

It was at that moment that the door opened and the Losers filed in, hopefully glancing towards the bed before their faces fell. The way they seemed so calm, so ready to act like Stan was just a victim of a tragic accident instead of the fucking perpetrator, made all his ugly feelings rise up, up, up into his throat, and before he could even think, Richie was saying, “Remember when he thought we left him? As kids? He told us we weren’t his friends.”

They looked stricken, especially Bill - and oh right. It had been Bill that Stan was speaking to above all, because he was their fearless leader and he was supposed to steer them right, never wrong. And well. Richie had gotten over his own fight with Bill that summer, but at this moment? He just wanted him to hurt. He wanted them all to  _ see. _ So he looked directly at Bill and said, “He knew it wasn’t true. And he said it anyway, because he’s Stanley fucking Urine, and Stanley  _ fucking _ Urine never thinks when it actually matters.”

Silence. And then: “Beep beep Richie,” Eddie said quietly. Richie glared at him.

“No. Fuck you. He wandered off that time, and then he blamed us. I felt guilty about that for fucking  _ months.” _

“You think we didn’t?” Bill asked. “You think it didn’t sting that we weren’t there for him?!”   
  


“We were  _ always  _ there for him! He’s the one who left us then, and he’s the one who wanted to leave us now! What the fuck kind of shitty fucking friend is -”

“Quiet, Richie.” Richie blinked.

“Are you serious, Mike? You’re the one who had to stay, and had to call us back, and you’re not even the least bit mad?”

“Of course I’m fucking mad, Rich. Just like I’m mad we had to fight an alien twice, just like I’m mad that we grew up in Derry, just like I’m mad that all of you except Bill wanted to leave Derry to rot.” Shame-faced, they all looked down. Mike sighed. “It’s alright. Well. It’s not, but you stayed in the end, and we won.” 

Richie opened his mouth again, but Mike held a hand up. “Stan managed to get out of fighting Pennywise; you’d be a hypocrite to be mad at him for succeeding in doing what you failed to do, even if it was in the worst possible way. We already lost years we could have known and loved each other to that fucking clown, Rich. I don’t want to lose anymore.”

Richie swallowed. “Fine,” he said quietly, just before Patty came in, utterly clueless as to what had happened. Richie dredged up a smile for her, studiously ignoring the warning glares to keep his trashmouth shut in front of Patty. He already knew to pipe down. 

Though he had to admit - he couldn’t exactly fault them for giving him the reminder, just in case.

* * *

The impossible had happened. Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier had locked his lips shut and thrown away the key, and he wasn’t going to be flapping his mouth any time soon. Even more impossibly, the Losers seemed to miss his running commentary, which he was definitely going to be making fun of them for once he and Stan found a way to give everyone an infinite amount of words.

Truth be told, he still didn’t know if he fully believed that this was a real thing he had to be worried about. But he believed it enough to be careful. Kind of like not believing in ghosts but still being smart enough to be afraid of them, though Richie personally did believe in ghosts. The point was, he didn’t want to take any chances. And Stan seemed so certain. So terrifyingly sure that words could run out that Richie couldn’t help but be caught up in his fear.

He didn’t know how they were going to find a solution to the problem. He hadn’t asked Stan, because Stan already seemed stressed out enough already, but at some point they were going to have to figure this out, so everything could go back to normal. Richie missed being able to use his voice.

Their friends begged and pleaded with them when they first realized that Richie had gone completely silent. There were definitely some tears involved, and Richie almost broke down each time, but one look at Stan’s petrified face always stopped him. The Losers just didn’t understand, and Richie couldn’t force them to, but at the very least he could stop them from putting that look on Stan’s face. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to do much work there, because the Losers eventually realized that instead of helping, they were just giving Richie daily crises and causing Stan to shut down.

It was strange. Stan would get so scared that he’d go white, and then he’d get a weird look in his eyes, like they were windows getting fogged up, and if he was pushed to that point, it meant he wasn’t completely with them anymore. Like he was in a world adjacent to theirs even if his body was right there with them. It had happened a couple of times when they were kids, but now it happened every time Stan got too spooked.

(Each and every time, Richie started to think of Pennywise, and how he definitely didn’t belong on Earth. He wondered why he left whatever planet he came from. And he wondered if maybe Pennywise’s world was where Stan went when he got all far away-like. It didn’t take a big leap to come to the conclusion that maybe that was how Stan knew that you died when you used up your words - he had seen it first hand.)

* * *

They left the room soon after, in order to give Patty time alone with her husband. As soon as the door closed behind them, Bill and Mike and even Ben turned to Richie, all opening their mouths before shutting them closed with a synchronized click of teeth. Richie, still feeling raw, almost snarled at them to just say whatever they wanted to say, so that he could tell them where they could shove their holier-than-thou advice and admonitions, only to be suddenly gripped by panic. Dredging up painful memories had to have poisoned his mind somehow. Because now he had to wrestle with a new thought, a thought that said that if he used up all his words, Stanley would die. He jerkily pointed his thumb in the general direction of outside and fled as much as he could while not breaking into a full on run.

Richie knew it was a stupid thought. Just because he had been thinking about Stan’s old fear didn’t suddenly make it real. Besides that, there was no proof of it, not like with IT and its blatant magic and the trickle of memories that started when he entered Derry followed by the veritable flood of cherished moments returning to him once he saw the Losers.

But. He remembered how important this had been to Stanley, how much he had believed in it. The clown had also operated on belief - their belief that he was something to be feared, which had given him so much power that their memories were all but wiped once they left Derry as teens. And they had beat IT, with their belief that they didn’t have to be scared. 

For all Richie knew, there was still something magical clinging to the Losers, to him. Maybe if he believed in the sanctity of his silence enough, it would save Stan. He wanted to save Stan.

He finally came out into fresh air, and with his deep breaths came the realization that he didn’t have to be scared of talking. He just had to be firm in his quiet. He just had to believe, because fear didn’t have to dominate their lives anymore. He took a few more breaths, centering himself for a few minutes. Then he went back inside and up to Stanley’s floor, where the Losers were waiting in the same spot he had left them, all of them turning to look at him with sad eyes.

“Honey -” Bev started to say as she reached out for him, but he mimed zipping his lips and took out his phone to open Twitter. He saw her hand drop down back to her side, and momentarily felt bad before deciding to just type quickly so he could show them what he needed to say. Hopefully - most likely - she’d reach out to hold him again, and he’d be ready to accept it. He finished typing, blew out a breath, and then handed them his phone so they could read what he had just posted.

_ Bi the way, that's exactly what I am ayooooo _

The time it took for them to crowd around his phone and then read his tweet felt like an eternity, but he reminded himself that he was strong. Strong enough to survive Derry, strong enough to defeat an alien twice, strong enough to still be filled with love for these friends that he had lost. Surely they were strong in all the same ways.

He was proved right when Bev gave him back his phone and they all clamored to hug him and offer words of congratulations and support. He resisted the urge to chide them for talking. This wasn’t about fear. They could talk, and nothing would happen. Besides, it was just Stanley keeping his voice under lock and key the first time, and both of them the second time. It was his turn to weather this alone. For Stan.

He let himself be wrapped up in hugs for a few seconds longer before he pulled back. He reached out for Eddie’s hand (“Rich -?”) and dropped his phone into it, giving him a significant look. The confusion in Eddie’s eyes cleared up and he nodded, pocketing the phone. He wouldn’t be giving it back to Richie until Stan woke up. Possibly not until they were all prepared to go home.

* * *

Nearly a year had passed since Stan first fell quiet. He and Richie had a system of sorts going by now. Their parents received short, concise answers if their questions couldn’t be answered with hand gestures. Their teachers were much the same. Richie was privately grateful that Hockstetter and Bowers were long gone, because they were definitely the type of guys who would have kicked the shit out of him and Stan just to get them to talk. As it was, people mostly left the Losers alone since no one sane really went after teens who traveled in a pack more often than not.

The Losers had accepted that Richie and Stan weren’t going to be talking anymore, and as a sort of compromise, made sure to not talk as much around them, opting instead to use small whiteboards and dry erase markers to communicate. Richie made sure to show his gratefulness to his parents every day, since they had been the ones to buy them.

Several attempts at learning and using sign language were made, but they eventually accepted that Derry’s library was never going to be the best source for surviving in the outside world. Unspoken, there lay a promise between Stan and Richie that as soon as they had their own cars, a better place for research was one of the first places they were going to go, and Jesus fucking Christ, Richie had never thought that would be something he’d ever intend to do.

And sure, Richie missed speaking. A lot. He sometimes had dreams where he and Stan freely talked to each other again, poking and prodding each other with their words because they both liked to argue for the sake of arguing. But those dreams always ended as nightmares: either he uttered a word and then immediately dropped dead as Stan’s worried voice saying his name grew in volume; or Stan started wincing in pain, at first slightly and then more and more pronounced, until every word that left his lips had him doubling over until he was kneeling on the ground, coughing up blood and literally withering away before Richie’s eyes. He always woke up with a scream caught in his throat and a panicked reminder to himself that screams didn’t count as words so it didn’t matter if he had been yelling or not. Suffice to say he didn’t speak, and instead contented himself with meeting up with Stan and writing out plans for things to look into to fix this Word Problem.

But things were still ok, for the most part. Like today, for example. It was an idyllic June afternoon, and school had just been let out a few days ago. They were all in the Clubhouse, except for Stan, who would be joining them later, and Bev, who hadn't visited from Portland since Thanksgiving, even though she was supposed to, and hadn't even sent any letters explaining why. (Which was weird, because the last time they had seen her off, she'd had that stubborn look on her face that meant she was going to find a solution to a problem. The way she hugged both Richie and Stan so tightly they could feel it in their bones, along with the speculative looks she kept giving them, made it pretty clear what exactly the problem was.) But there probably was a really simple explanation, something that didn't involve outgrowing the Losers, and definitely not anything word-related. It was all fine.

The stillness was broken by the sound of someone recklessly climbing down the ladder. They all looked over, startled, only to find Stan panting heavily. It sounded like maybe he had run all the way over.

"We're moving."

If Stan hadn't immediately clapped a hand over his own mouth, Richie probably would have spent a few more moments wondering where the hoarse voice had come from. As it was, he sat up immediately, opening his own mouth to speak before shutting it when he saw the tears escaping out of the corners of Stan’s closed eyes and the way his other hand joined the one on his mouth.    
  


The others didn’t seem to notice this though, forgetting themselves in their dismay and crowding around him.

“When did they tell you?”

“When are you leaving?”

“But why?”

“Where are you going to go?”

“You can’t convince them to let you stay?”

“What are we going to do without our resident birdmaster?”

The more they talked, the more Stan seemed to hunch in on himself. Richie snapped out of his daze and hopped out of the hammock, nudging the others away so he could drape himself over Stan. He shushed and flapped a hand at them, hoping they’d get the signal to back off a little. He could feel the beginnings of anxiety stirring deep in his gut just listening to them, and he held Stan tighter and flapped his hand more wildly at them as a consequence.

Luckily, Eddie seemed to take the hint-that-was-more-of-a-command. Richie watched as he deliberately pressed his lips together, watched as he gently came up on Stan’s other side to wrap his arms around him and lean his head on his bicep. Stan relaxed into their touch, letting his hands fall from his mouth so that he could tug them in closer by the hems of their shirts. They heeded this gesture, and Mike, Bill, and Ben soon followed them into the hug.

The hug lasted for a while, all of them simply breathing and letting the moment wash over them.

After a moment, Stan carefully disentangled himself and walked over to the spot he had designated as the Whiteboard Spot, grabbed a marker, and started writing. They watched him curiously until he lifted the board up.

_ They told me just now. They think it’s Derry that’s making me like this. I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe something is still here. But either way they’ve been planning this for months; my dad’s going to be doing services as soon as we get there.  _

_ I’m not surprised they never told me.  _ (This last sentence was written with a hasty hand, nearly illegible. Stan had never liked speaking badly of his parents, not even when they deserved it - not even after his bar mitzvah. Richie had never completely understood this, seeing as how he felt safe and content with his parents, but Bill and Eddie did. Bev had too, to an extent.)

_ We’re leaving in two months. _

This time, the Losers bit their tongues. There really wasn’t any more to say, anyway.

The day of the Uris’ move came quickly, much too quickly for anyone’s taste. They spent the months mostly  _ trying _ to have chaotic fun, and only sometimes succeeding. It turned out that having the most solemn of your friends - of your  _ family _ \- leave was something that made you incredibly solemn as well. 

At one point, they had all been at the cliff overlooking the quarry when they suddenly noticed that Ben had started crying. He made no noise, and his face wasn’t scrunched up; for all they knew, he wasn’t crying, his eyes had just suddenly started leaking water of their own volition. When they gently nudged him to see what was wrong, he let out a shuddery breath and, with an apologetic glance at Stan and Richie, he spoke.

“Bev. Something she said.” He laughed, a nostalgic little sound. “‘Yeah Stan, come on. You don’t have to be so…’”

“Sad,” Bill, Mike, and Eddie whispered. Stan looked away. He swallowed. Richie wished, once again, that he could bring himself to speak, that this deep, insidious doubt over how the world really worked hadn’t got such a strong hold on him. He licked his lips. Opened his mouth and - nope. It wasn’t going to happen.

What did happen was that they all lay back, and let themselves follow Ben’s lead. Their tears fell into the dirt, and years later, when they stood on the cliff again, they’d look at the place where they sat and imagine that they could still see the wet dots imprinted there on the ground. 

For now, they each internally decided to never speak of it again.

When the time to say goodbye came, it was nearly completely silent. The only noise was Stan’s parents’ soft murmurs as they decided what suitcase went where, with the occasional question or command for their son. The Losers simply stood there, communicating with hand gestures that were incomprehensible to anyone but them.

Finally, everything was packed up, and Stan’s mom told him it was time for the official farewell. (She used those exact words too, and Richie would have laughed if he didn’t think it would also make him sob. Also he was kind of scared of what Rabbi Uris would do if he heard him laughing at his wife.)

They each gave Stan a tight hug. Bill swayed from side to side with him, eyes closed, before finally letting go; Ben buried his face in Stan’s shoulder and tried not to sniffle because he knew the sound this close to the ear would irritate Stan; Mike pressed his lips against Stan’s cheek quickly so that no one except the Losers could see; and Eddie wrapped his arms around Stan’s waist and made himself even smaller than he already was so that he could tuck himself into Stan’s chest, eventually bringing up one hand to clench at his shirt.

By the time Stan got to Richie, they were both crying and trying to wipe away the continuous tears. Richie crushed him to his chest, sniffling as loud as he pleased and ignoring Stan’s jab to his stomach. They both breathed, in and out, until they were a little more calm. Hit with a sudden need to play with Stan’s hair, the hair that had always kind of sort of fascinated him, Richie reached a hand up to tug at one of the tight curls, only flinching a little in surprise when he felt Stan’s hand doing the same to his own bird’s nest. Stan had been the first one to call it that besides Maggie, and from then on all the Losers had adopted the phrase. Richie huffed a laugh, and Stan held him tighter in response for a moment before letting go. Richie followed suit, and the hands they had used to toy with each other’s hair met between them. Or - their pinkies did anyway. A pinky swear, like the first one they had made when they first became friends, where they promised to be friends forever because they didn’t think anyone else would like them. Now, it was a promise to be friends forever even with all the friends they had made, because they understood each other best, in silence and otherwise. Besides, they still had a mystery to solve.

Stan stepped back and opened his arms then, looking at them significantly, and they all crowded around him, pulling him to the center of their circle. Richie thought of Bev, and wished that she had been there to say goodbye as well. He didn’t know how, but he knew that they were all thinking the same thing.

None of them were ready to let go, but they did. They didn’t want to risk the wrath of the elder Urises, who could make people feel like ants if they were crossed, despite being generally pleasant people.

Stan, who knew this better than anyone, walked quickly over to the car, looking over his shoulder as he opened the back door and waved. He slipped inside and shut the door. The engine started, and the car sat for a minute as it warmed up. Stan peeked out the window, laying his head on his arms and looking at them fondly. They looked just as fondly back.

Stan’s sad smile disappeared just as the car started to pull away from the curb, and he frowned, seeming to contemplate something before he quickly pulled his arms and head back in. He was back in the next second, only this time he leaned out the window. He ignored his mother’s shout and took a fortifying breath before he yelled, “BYE LOSERS!” He sat back down, though his face was still visible. His eyes were wide, and even as the distance between them got longer, Richie could see that the expression on his face was wild, manic.

Like a spell being broken, all the Losers came alive. 

“BYE STAN!”

“WE’LL MISS YOU!”

“REMEMBER TO WRITE!”

“YEAH, AND FIND BEV WHILE YOU’RE AT IT!”

Richie, meant to call out, but his voice came out as a squeak. He swallowed the bile that wanted to come up, the confusion at Stan breaking his own rules, the sadness that he only did it now as he was leaving. Then again, maybe that was what it had to take: a drastic change, the fear that they’d never see each other again overriding the fear of a fast-approaching death.

The car was already nearly a spot in the distance, and Richie began to run, with the rest of them following and hollering after him. He breathed, in 1, 2, 3, out 1, 2, 3, and then, harnessing the full power of his long unused voice, he shouted, “FUCK SHIT UP, STAN THE MAN!”

He thought Stanley must have heard him.

(Years later, he would wonder if the fear had never truly left him like he thought it had that day. Maybe that was part of the reason why, for almost two decades, he hadn’t allowed his voice to really be his own.)

* * *

A week had passed, and while Stan was still stable, he was seemingly no closer to waking up.

The only thing that made this tolerable was the fact that during their stay in Atlanta, the Losers had found a new friend in Patty. She was smart, she was funny and a little sly, she was gentle and optimistic (but still grounded) and dorky, and she had a chaotic streak a mile wide hiding deep within. In short, she was perfect for Stanley.

It was almost expected then, that she and Richie would get on like a house on fire, considering they were definitely Stan’s two favorite people in the world. But that was something to be expected with a Richie who  _ talked. _ Silent Richie, while pleasant and still wildly, often hilariously inappropriate in turns, was someone people generally left alone. No one would have thought badly of Patty if she did the same.

But to everyone’s slight surprise, she stuck to Richie like glue. He was more than happy to let her walk alongside him, or hold his hand in the waiting room, or go out with him on snack runs; but he had to admit that he didn’t know what exactly she saw in him that made her want to stay by his side. She had received a jumbled sort of explanation from the others on what exactly Richie was doing, one filled with anecdotes and tangents about their childhood, though they had completely missed the mark on why he was staying silent this time. They thought the fear had returned with Stan so vulnerable, which was a fair assumption to make, since he hadn’t shared with anyone what he hoped his silence would achieve. He figured that perhaps she just wanted to stay close to someone who was as scared as she was, though that didn’t really feel right, because she had a tendency to stare at him with eyes that seemed all too knowing. Which was weird, because of course she couldn’t  _ know. _

(Could she?)

The explanation for this came that afternoon.

“Stanley was - he went through periods of time where he was selectively mute,” she said casually as she and Richie strolled around the block. Richie turned to look at her, his heart suddenly pounding, though he didn’t really know why. It definitely had something to do with Stan possibly never getting over his childhood fear though, even with the happy life he had led once he left Derry.

She continued. “Sometimes it was just...something he needed to do. He said his brain got foggy, all jumbled up and messy. He needed to recalibrate, and to do that he needed to just. Not talk. To anyone.” She gave a little laugh. “It was hard at first, but I knew what I was getting into. Very honest, Stanley.”

Richie kind of wanted to tell her that yeah, Stan could be honest, but he just as often was a conniving little sneak who spoke in double meanings and found loopholes in everything. The moment to say it came and went. Chances were she knew that about Stan already, or that Stan the Man had grown out of it.

They walked silently for a bit, and Richie wondered if she was done talking, but then she said, “But there were times, when I could tell it was something else.” She glanced at him and then looked at the ground. “It wasn’t really fear, it was more...apprehension. Over something unnameable. I asked him if he knew what it was once and you know what he said?” Richie shook his head.

“He said, ‘Babylove, I wish I knew.’” Her eyes filled with tears, and Richie awkwardly patted her on the back before throwing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. The move paid off: she smiled and wiped at her face before clearing her throat. “Anyway, that’s what I could sense, and -” she stopped walking, looking up at Richie as he nearly stumbled. She waited until he was upright again and looking back at her before she picked up where she left off. “And I think I can sense something like that in you. Like you’re staying quiet for a similar reason.”

If Richie wasn’t determined to not say a single word, he would have admiringly said, “Patricia Uris, you are -  _ close _ to being right on the money. No wonder you’re a teacher with a big brain like that.”

Instead, he contented himself with smiling approvingly at her and making a so-so gesture with his free hand. He supposed that he  _ was _ feeling some apprehension, but it was eclipsed by his overwhelming resolve to see this through. 

Patty smiled proudly up at him, and he felt a sudden rush of appreciation for her. He wished that they - the Losers - could have all stayed friends, so that they could have met Patty when Stan had; seen from the beginning that yes, this was a person worthy of their friend, someone who could both keep up with him and slow down with him.

They made their way back onto their floor and into Stanley’s room, the silence between them light and something close to cheerful-adjacent. Richie had taken his arm off her shoulder in favor of linking it with hers, and they were about to march on over to the chairs and push them together when they heard a slight cough.

At first, they looked at each other, intending to ask if the other was ok. They were interrupted by another cough. Later, they would both attempt to edit the story so that they came off as more quick-witted than they actually were, because it took them a few long seconds of just staring at each other for them to finally catch on to what was going on. They whipped their heads over to look at the bed, and yes - there Stan was, attempting to sit up and coughing intermittently.

They hurried over to him, Richie helping him sit up and fluffing the pillows so he could stay up, and Patty holding a cup of water to his lips and waiting patiently as he took little sips. Stan smiled gratefully at her, his face going soft and warm. Richie was about to see himself out, so that the happy couple could have as sappy and private a reunion as they pleased, but that was when Stan turned to look at him and said the first words Richie would ever hear from him as an adult: “You trying to steal my wife, Trashmouth?”

Richie laughed. It came out as a tiny huff, and then it fully hit him - Stan was safe now. He had done it. Richie had kept him in the land of the living. The huff abruptly turned into straight up hysterics, and Patty and Stan were looking at him with amusement that was starting to dip into concern, and still he couldn’t stop himself.

The door swung open to reveal the other Losers, who clamored in making worried noises over what they were sure was a mental breakdown taking place. They immediately stopped once they saw Stan, wry smile and all, and as one they all cried out in joy and rushed to his side. They each hugged him gently, as if his wrists weren’t the only wounded place on his body.

“We’re so glad you’re back, Stan,” seemed to be the general consensus among the group. Stan opened his mouth to apologize for not going back, for making them worry, for keeping them waiting, but before he could even make a noise, the sound of obnoxious throat-clearing filled the room.

It was Richie, predictably. His laughing fit had started to peter out when the Losers startled him with their dramatic entrance, and now he was ready to say, “Nah, actually she’s stolen  _ me _ from  _ you. _ Patty’s officially my new best friend.” Bill, Mike, Bev, Eddie, and Ben all blinked at him, evidently shocked at both his apparent non-sequitur and the fact that he had  _ spoken. _

“Rich, wh-”   
  


“Good,” Stan shot back, “I put up with you for a decade; she can have this next one.”

“Ooooooh,” said everyone sans Richie (who merely stuck out his tongue), because they were all not-so-secretly still children at heart.

Patty, being a woman who could never resist being part of or instigating some good banter, said, “So we’re just going to trade off then, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Deal.”

“Wow, you really  _ are _ married,” Eddie said unthinkingly, and he flushed when everyone broke out into snorts and giggles.

Luckily for him, that was the moment that a nurse and a doctor came into the room, thereby putting a halt to any teasing that would have definitely taken place. The doctor spoke.

“Mr. Uris, so glad to see you awake. I’m Doctor De la Rosa, and this is Nurse Smith. How are you feeling?”

“Like I just came back from the dead.”

The doctor and nurse blinked, but otherwise looked unphased. “Seeing as that’s what we’ve been told happened, I’d say that’s excellent,” said Dr. De la Rosa. “Now, we’re going to ask you a few questions, do a few routine tests, but we’re going to need everyone except your wife out of the room.” 

The Losers nodded and filed out, waving to Stan and Patty before the door shut. They sat down, all glancing towards the door periodically, legs jiggling and hands fidgeting. You’d think that they were all waiting for someone going through intensive surgery, but no. They just wanted to go back to talking to their long-lost friend, and they hoped that he’d be pronounced fit and healthy so they could do it in the comfort of his home. (Because there was no doubt Stan and Patty were going to invite them back to their place after he was released from the hospital.)

Richie wondered if this made them codependent, then thought that maybe a little codependence in a family that had been through as much as theirs had, could be overlooked. 

A breathy laugh snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked over in the direction of the sound. It was Bill, holding his head in his hands, his wide smile still visible. “I can’t believe he’s alive. He’s alive. He’s back with us.” He laughed again. “Losers reunited. For real this time.”

A cheer went up, and they snickered to themselves when the other people in the waiting room glared at them. They all fell silent again soon though, eagerly waiting for Stan’s prognosis. Richie reached for his phone to pass the time, then suddenly remembered he had given it to Eddie. Because he had come out to the world today, holy  _ shit. _ He considered asking for his phone back for a split second before nixing the idea because A) no matter how strong and brave he was feeling, he wasn’t ready to face the fallout of his actions; that could wait until After, and B) Eddie would probably give him a frown and a curt, probably almost petulant,  _ no, _ and he’d probably have to fight him to get him back and Richie just wasn’t up to expending that much energy at the moment. Even if grappling with Eddie was always fun because Eddie really gave it his all and it was, to borrow words from his younger self,  _ cute, cute cute! _

He decided to daydream instead - vague thoughts of visiting Stan and Patty during the height of summer just so he had an excuse to wear his worst cargo pants/Hawaiian shirt combo mixing with musings of whether Bill would introduce them to his wife and would she remember that she and Richie had met on the set of some stoner comedy interspersed with visions of them all going back to the cliffside in Derry so they could all jump off this time and -

And he didn’t realize he had kind of dozed off until Bev jostled him and Eddie poked him in the side. He blinked, fully awake, and realized that Dr. De la Rosa and Nurse Smith had come out of the room, though they were still talking to Patty. A moment later, they turned to them and welcomed them back in with a hand gesture.

“As we told Mrs. Uris, he’ll be free to go tomorrow morning, in case any of you wanted to be here for his discharge.” They all nodded eagerly. She smiled. “I thought so. Mrs. Uris will give you all the information you need. Press the “call nurse” button next to the pillow there in case you need any assistance, and Nurse Smith will see you all bright and early tomorrow morning.” With twin smiles, she and Nurse Smith left.

“So,” Richie said, turning to Patty. “He’s alright?”

“I’m right here, Trashmouth, and yes, I’m alright.”

“Shhh, I like your wife better than you.”

“Oh no. The horror.”

They all burst into giggles at the deadpan tone of voice. Richie felt light, he felt free. It was so good to see Stan like this again.

“Well,” Mike spoke up, clapping his hands together once. “I believe we were interrupted before?” At their confused looks, he turned to Eddie and, in a passable imitation of Eddie’s voice, said,  _ “Wow, you really are married.” _ Eddie blushed. 

“Are you really still on that?” he asked, trying to look irritated but only achieving a flustered sort of put-upon haughtiness.

“I don’t know, did you really not believe me when I told you Stan had a wife?” Mike asked, amusement dancing across his handsome face. 

“I - no I did, it’s just - there’s married and then there’s  _ married.” _

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t  _ uh-huh  _ me, Ben, you’re hot but you can’t just do whatever you want because of it.”

Ben blinked. “You think I’m hot?”

“Honey,  _ everyone _ thinks you’re hot,” Bev responded with a wink.

“Yeah, stop fishing, Ben,” Bill said playfully as Ben sheepishly grinned.

“We get it, Ben’s hot. You’ve always been a gem, Hanscom -” (“Thank you,” Ben replied, face bright red) “- but if there’s married and then there’s  _ married, _ which one are all of you?”

Richie snorted. “Almost got married, but we both couldn’t go through with it, so neither, Staniel.”

_ “What?!” _

“Oh, I didn’t tell you guys? Weird,” Richie said with a grin. He could see Eddie gearing up for a rant, because he clearly had an Opinion, and he was ready to lean back against a wall and enjoy it, but Stan interrupted.

“You’re telling us that story later, but I want to know about the rest of you. I can’t be the only one who tied the knot.”

“ _ Tied the knot, Jesus.  _ You really are eighty, I don’t know how Patty puts up wi-”

“Shhh.”

Patty winked at Richie and then waggled her eyebrows. Richie held back a laugh so as not to get shushed again. He had the fleeting thought that Stan would make a good stereotypical librarian. He and Mike could have worked at Derry's library together, playing good librarian, bad librarian. The thought had him holding back another laugh as responses started rolling in.

“Never married,” Ben said, shrugging like thousands of people wouldn’t beg to marry him.

“Also never married. Was kind of too busy with the clown research and running the library.” This was said nonchalantly, and Richie wondered if Mike picked up on the doubtless countless flirtations he received every day working at that library. Then again, it was Derry, so at least half those flirtations were probably steeped in racist bullshit. Maybe it was better if Mike didn’t pick up on anything.

“I’m about to divorce the asshole, but let’s say I’ve never been married either,” Bev said brightly. Too brightly, almost sharp, and Stan gave her an appraising look before nodding and smiling. “No, Stan, you’re not allowed to try and ruin his life.”

“I probably wouldn’t have.”

“It doesn’t matter, because I can do that myself.”

“You’ve always been my favorite, you know that?”

Bev snorted. “That’s a lie and we all know it. Patty probably knows it too.”

Patty nodded solemnly. Stan pouted. “Whatever, I plead the fifth.” Amid laughter, he asked, “What about you two?” He pointed at Bill and Eddie.

Bill cleared his throat. “Well uh. I’m married, and she’s great! I don’t know. I mean, I know she’s great, what I don’t know is if we’ll...stay married. We might be better friends than spouses.” He cleared his throat again and rubbed the back of his neck. Stan gave him a reassuring smile.

“That’s fine. Better to find out now what’s better for you both than waiting until you’re eighty and possibly miserable.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

There was a brief silence before they all turned to Eddie, who was apparently so startled at being put on the spot that he blurted out, “I’m gay!”

Richie’s brain whited out, then rebooted itself. Eddie Kaspbrak was gay, but that didn’t have to mean anything particularly special for Richie. And even if it did, now was really not the time. Even someone with a chronic case of inappropriate timing like he had could see and respect that. Instead of saying anything, he joined four of the seven Losers in blinking at Eddie in shock.

Stan, unphased because  _ oh my God, he didn’t know about Eddie’s wife, _ said, “Thank you for telling us. What’s your husband like?”

Richie managed to keep in the high pitched noise that wanted to escape, but only just. Eddie looked away from them all and said, “Uh...well, about that. I -”

Stan’s expression morphed from gentle encouragement into incredulous understanding. “Oh Eddie, tell me you didn’t -”

“Nope, nope, I love you Stan, but I’m not taking judgement from you today.” Stan looked down shamefully, and Eddie’s face softened, his doe eyes growing wide with sympathy. “I didn’t mean it like that, not really.”

Stan gave him a dry look. “Really?”

Eddie bit his lip. “Ok, maybe I did, a little, but you just caught me off guard. But I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Damn right, you shouldn’t have.”

“Patty -”

“No Stan. You shouldn’t have gotten judgemental but he shouldn’t have thrown this in your face.” 

Richie mentally added  _ No nonsense when she needs to be _ on his ever growing list of reasons to love Patty Uris and be grateful that she came into Stan’s life. Eddie, meanwhile, nodded. “I’m going to divorce her as soon as I get back home,” he continued. “I’ll fill you in on all the details and you can be all Stan about it. It’ll be fun.”

“All Stan about it?”

“Yeah, where you’re a tiny bit judgey but in a nice way. A helpful, get-me-through-this kind of way. You make things less scary.”

There were murmurs of agreement. Richie would add that Stan also had the ability to make things  _ more _ scary, but that would kind of be rubbing salt on a wound, and Richie wasn’t cruel. He tried really hard all the time not to be. He supposed that was something he and Stan could work on together now.

Stan stared at Eddie, a puzzled frown on his face. It cleared up after a minute or two and he softly said, “It’s going to be really scary, isn’t it?”

Eddie swallowed. “Yeah. I lied before. It probably won’t be fun at all.”

“That’s ok. We’ll all be here for you.”

A chorus of “yes” and “of course” sounded out, and Bev said, “We can form a ‘Terrified But Pushing Through It’ Divorce Club of two. Sorry Bill, you’re not invited.”

“No yeah, no offense but I’m glad I’m not.”

“None taken.”

From there, the conversation turned to more mundane things - though for them, the mundane was much more exciting and fulfilling than any wild adventure. They’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.

Stanley and Patty regaled them all with tales of several firsts - their first meeting, their first time really talking, their first date. Their disastrous first kiss. The first time they had allowed themselves to show each other how messy and sly they were under their proper, almost soft, exteriors. That one was a funny one, and involved a fire hydrant, the roof of their university library, and several clothes stealing cats. When the laughter had sort of died down, Richie, still riding the high of hearing about one of Stanley Uris’ Top Ten Moments, asked, “So we heard about all these other firsts, what about the most important one?” He waggled his eyebrows to get his point across, though judging by his friends’ faces, he didn’t need to.

Before anyone could say, “Beep beep Richie,” though, Patty calmly and faux-obliviously said, “You mean the first time we took care of each other when we were sick? Because Stan threw up on me when I tended to him, and that’s how  _ I _ got sick literally the day after he got better.”

Shocked silence. And then -    
  


“Fucking hell, Stan, you threw up on her?”

“Patty, you must be an absolute saint -”

“Stan! How could you?”

“I would have left him right then and there -”

“If you weren’t already married to her, I’d tell you to marry her. Actually, just renew your vows already, she’s clearly worth it.”

Richie slapped his knee, still howling with laughter. “Stanley if you threw up on this clever gal here - and don’t think I don’t know you dodged my question by embarrassing him, you - and she still continued to go out with you, then either you’re a legend or you need a new career as the most excellent nurse in the world.”

“That’s one thing you’ll never know the answer to, Tozier.”

“That’s so unfair, you know everything about  _ me  _ -”

“Hey, Rich?”

Richie said, “This isn’t over” to Stan (who shrugged and smiled), and then turned to Bill. “What’s up, Big Bill?”

Bill rolled his eyes fondly at the nickname. “We’ve all been wondering, but we kept forgetting to ask: I thought you were uh, being quiet again? And not that we don’t all love your voice -” (he grinned teasingly and Richie snorted) “ - but why are you speaking now? Not afraid anymore?” The hope in his voice was unmistakable, as it was on the rest of the Losers’ faces.

Richie looked at Stan, who looked surprised. It figured, since no one had filled him in on Richie’s born-again but short-lived vow of silence. Richie raised his eyebrows, a gesture that meant that he would explain later, and nonchalantly said, “Because I can.”

Though the answer clearly confused everyone - except maybe Stan, who looked like he might have vaguely understood, and Patty, who seemed content to only understand if Richie wanted her to - no one pressed him any further, and they fell back into easy conversation.

And the thing was - Richie still didn’t know if Stan had been right to think that people were born with limited words and would die when they used them all up. They had seen weirder things, but surely, something like that would have been discovered before now, since it was presumably a worldwide thing, and not just a Derry thing. But did it really matter?

Maybe it wasn’t Richie’s belief in the power of his own silence that let Stan wake up; maybe Stan just woke up. A little miracle. But then again, if miracles were possible, couldn't silence be golden enough to save someone’s life? Richie kind of thought so, but mostly, he thought that there were worse things to believe in than being able to bend the rules of the world to give someone more time.


End file.
